The Affair (13 page)

“Dad!” Brendan wrenched open the door, with all the force and enthusiasm of a seventeen-year-old, jolting him from his thoughts. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Thought I’d surprise you.” Robert reached over and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “How was school? And don’t say boring,” he added quickly.

“Almost boring,” Brendan grinned. “Math sucks, Dad. . . .”

“I know. I know. But you heard what your mother said. Junior year’s your most important year for grades on your college application. She wants you to get into a good school. And so do I,” he added, turning the key in the ignition and easing the car down the street.

“But you said I could join you in the company.”

“And you will. After college. The business is changing. It’s hard to get hired without an education, even if your old man owns the company. Technology is evolving. The latest digital video technology is moving ahead in leaps and bounds. Wasn’t so long ago video cameras recorded on tape. Next it was CDs and then Blu-rays, and now it’s all digital recorder.” Robert turned down the narrow side road that led to the gymnasium where the Brookline Warriors practiced. “I can’t keep up with all the new technology—but you can. That’s why I really want you to go to college, come out with a degree, and take R&K to a new level.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder again. “You know it makes sense.”

“I know,” Brendan said unhappily. “But Mom’s really on my case about this. I even have to study over Christmas for my SATs. Seriously, Dad, it’s so unfair.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Does this mean I can’t work at the company on weekends?”

“Of course you can. I’m talking to a boy band about shooting their new pop video. I could use you on that.”

“That’d be awesome. I could be a second-unit director.”

“Hey—this is R&K Productions, not 20th Century Fox. We don’t have second units. We have one unit—and that’s me with a Steadicam. You can be an associate producer, maybe.”

“Okay,” Brendan said slowly. “So . . . what does that mean exactly?”

“Means you make the coffee.”

“Tight,” Brendan said glumly. He suddenly leaned forward and pointed. “There’s Theresa.”

 

“Yeah, J.P. Licks!” Brendan shouted and high-fived his sister.

“Wait until I park . . . ,” Robert began, but Brendan pulled open the door and bounded out of the car toward the ice cream shop. “Dad, you’re the best.”

Robert pulled up alongside Zaftigs Deli and parallel-parked between two oversized SUVs, maneuvering the Audi into the tight space. Satisfied, he pulled up the brake and turned off the engine.

Theresa waited for her father while he put money into the Pay Station. She was very maternal, just like her mother. He reached down, and she slipped her hand into his. “So tell me,” he said, “how was school?”

“The usual. How was work?”

“The usual,” he said. “Although I’ve got some really cool stuff coming up.”

“You can’t say cool, Dad,” Theresa said quickly. “Not at your age. It’s not . . . cool.”

“When I was young, we used to say cool all the time.”

She squeezed his hand, a quick tightening of the fingers. “Well, you’re not young now.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Gee, you’re welcome.”

Theresa would probably be the one taking care of him in his old age. Brendan would want to put him into a home, but Theresa would insist that her father live with her and her family. Robert swallowed hard, pushing away the sudden image of his little girl all grown up with a family of her own. It seemed like only yesterday when he’d cradled his babies in his arms . . . and now they were teens. Soon they would make their own way out into the world, and he’d lose them to husbands, wives, and lovers . . . but they would always be his children, and he would always strive to make them happy. To give them what they wanted, no matter what the cost. They would have everything he never had. Including ice cream before dinner.

Theresa had been “starving” after basketball practice and she “couldn’t wait” for dinner. And even though it was below freezing outside, the air cold enough to make blinking painful, she wanted ice cream. Coconut almond chip ice cream.

“Dad, please, Dad, please.”

When Theresa asked Robert for something, it was hard for him to say no. For years, they had had a father-daughter tradition that on the first day of every month, he’d buy two large Hershey chocolate bars with almonds at CVS, and they’d wolf them down in the car. Kathy had never found out.

Kathy didn’t approve of kids eating sugar, but Robert was of the opinion that a little chocolate never hurt anyone, especially when it afforded him a little bonding time with his daughter.

Because he had been working so hard for so many years, Robert cherished any time he could get with his kids. For far too many years, by the time he got home at night they were either in bed or, more recently, watching TV or doing homework. By that time he was too mentally exhausted to engage with them, and often a whole week would go by with less than a couple of words spoken between them. On the rare occasion he got home early enough from work to pick them up from school and spend time with them, well, he tried to make it last. So, when Theresa begged for ice cream before dinner, Robert simply couldn’t refuse.

Robert wrapped his daughter’s small hand in his as they walked down Harvard Street. Robert smiled; he wondered if his daughter would ever be “too old” to hold her dad’s hand. He blinked at the sudden image of him leading his daughter down the aisle of a flower-filled church.

“You’re like a million miles away,” Theresa said as they entered the ice cream store. Brendan was already at the counter, pointing to the vat of chocolate M&M ice cream.

“I was just thinking that you’re growing up so fast. You’ll be getting married soon.”

“Dad!” Theresa squealed. She had just gotten her braces off, and Robert knew it was only going to be a matter of time before he was going to be subjected to the stress of a dating daughter. “That is seriously not happening any time soon.” Then her smile faded as she searched his worried face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, pumpkin. Just don’t grow up too quickly, promise me that.”

“Sure, Dad. Hey, can I add hot fudge and marshmallow sauce?” She pulled him up to the long counter.

“You’re going to ruin your appetite, and you know how your mother feels about dessert before dinner.”

Theresa chuckled. “Trust me, I won’t. I’m totally starving.” She squeezed her father’s hand again. “Besides, what Mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“Don’t underestimate your mother,” Robert said, reaching for his wallet. “She’s a lot smarter than you think.”

 

Robert drove back to the house with the two children chatting happily together in the back of the car, which now smelled like a combination of Indian and Chinese take-out food. There were only two and a half years between Brendan and Theresa, and they got along really well. Robert was particularly happy about that. He didn’t really have a relationship with his three brothers, all of whom were older than he was. His parents had divorced when he was fourteen, and although he’d stayed with his mother, his regular weekends with his father and older brothers had been uncomfortable outings. He’d stopped going when he was sixteen. By then all but one of his brothers had moved out of the country—and a year later, his eldest brother, Stephen, had gone to New Mexico. There were still occasional letters, the odd Christmas card, congratulatory e-mails when the Red Sox won the World Series, but the last time he’d actually seen all of them had been at his father’s funeral fifteen years ago. Only Stephen had come home for their mother’s funeral nine months later.

“Dad,” Theresa chimed up around a mouthful of fries. She was dipping them in curry sauce, and Robert felt his stomach grumble. He’d missed lunch—again—and all he’d had to eat since breakfast was a packet of peanut M&M’s and rum raisin ice cream. So much for taking care of himself. He had promised Stephanie that he would start eating more healthily, and today’s diet had consisted of sugar, sugar, and more sugar. “Dad, hello, are we going to have to go to Aunt Julia’s the day after Christmas?”

“Well, you have a choice,” he said carefully. “Either we go over to your Aunt Julia . . . or she’ll come to us. Now, if we visit her,” he continued slowly over the groans, “we can leave. If she comes to us, we’ll never get rid of her.”

“But we go there every year!” Brendan protested.

“It’s a tradition. It’s called Boxing Day.”

“A British tradition. We’re American.”

“I know, but the tradition is important to Ben, who’s British . . . and Julia who pretends she is.” Robert said patiently.

“Well, I think it’s time to break the tradition,” Brendan grumbled. “We’re missing some of the best television.”

“That’s why we have TiVo,” Robert sighed. He too hated going over to Kathy’s sister’s house in Wellesley for her annual Boxing Day party, but he knew how important it was to his wife. “Let’s do it this year, and we’ll see if we can do something about changing it for next year. Deal?”

“Deal,” the kids echoed.

“And we should probably not bring this up with Mom,” Theresa guessed. “Like the ice cream.”

“Probably not.” Robert grinned. He pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. The bedroom light was on upstairs. As they climbed out of the car, it clicked off. He put his key in the lock and pushed the hall door open, allowing Theresa and Brendan to shove their way into the hallway.

Kathy appeared at the top of the stairs, hand lightly trailing along the banister.

“We got takeout,” Brendan called, holding up the brown paper bags.

Kathy smiled. “More than takeout, I see.”

There was an expression on her face that Robert could not identify, and he wondered if she was coming down with something. “Everything okay?”

“Fine, just fine,” she said tightly, then swept past him into the kitchen.

Robert wandered into the family room and sank into a chair. He hit the remote to turn on the television, absently flicking from channel to channel. Sitcom, sitcom, bad sitcom, really bad sitcom, marine documentary, cooking program. All the sitcoms had a Christmas theme, the marine documentary was set in someplace snowy, and
Iron Chef
was doing a mince pie cook off. It had probably been recorded in June, he thought glumly.

“Are you having yours in here?” Kathy asked, standing in the doorway.

“No, no, I’ll eat in the kitchen.” He eased himself out of the chair and went into the kitchen. Theresa and Brendan were sorting through the food, doling it out onto plates, squabbling over the number of fries each had. They put their plates onto trays and carried them into the family room to watch TV.

“I got you some lamb curry. It’s mild,” Robert said.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Well, have a few mouthfuls anyway.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

Robert concentrated on emptying his own food—plain old chicken curry—from the foil containers onto his plate.

“That’ll stink up the kitchen,” Kathy said, pushing open the windows, “and you’ll reek of garlic for the rest of the night.”

“Keep the vampires away,” he said lightly. He sat and ate, chewing slowly and methodically, determined not to get a stomachache. He turned on the small TV set high on the wall and found the
Iron Chef
program. From the corner of his eye, he watched Kathy open the plastic medicine box and pull out two aspirin. She swallowed them quickly. “Are you all right?” he asked again.

“Just a touch of a headache. I’m going to bed,” she said, and hurried from the room, leaving him alone in the kitchen with his curry and the TV for comfort.

Robert watched several chefs competing against each other with the sound muted. The two children were a room away and Kathy was upstairs, and he was alone in the kitchen, eating his dinner: just another night in the Walker household. He felt desperately lonely. He couldn’t remember the last time the family had sat down to a meal together, nor could he remember the last time Kathy had asked him about work, how things were going, whether it had been a good day or not.

In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time she had shown any interest in anything about him: emotionally or physically.

“H
i.”

The phone popped and crackled, then Stephanie’s voice, intimate and clear, whispered down the line. “I was going to call you later. I’m really missing you tonight.”

Robert crossed the floor of the room he used as a home office and checked to make sure the door was locked. “I know. I miss you too,” he said quietly. “I was working on the DaBoyz pitch. Then I decided to get away before traffic got too awful.”

“How’s it coming?”

“Good, I think.”

“You can do it. I know you can.”

Robert sank back into his office chair and nodded. “I hope so.”

“Of course you can.” Her voice was enthusiastic, cheerful. “It’ll be a new direction for the company. Do one good pop video, and you’ll be the next big thing. All the bands will flock to your door.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” And in that instant he knew he could do it; Stephanie had absolute confidence in him and his abilities. “Thanks again for getting me the pitch meeting.”

“What’s wrong?” Stephanie asked suddenly, surprising him.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is. I know there is.”

“How can you tell?” Robert wondered, genuinely curious now.

“Short sentences. When you’re tired or bothered, you reply to me in short, staccato sentences.”

“You and your Ivy League education,” Robert grinned.

“Nothing to do with Princeton. ‘The Interpretation of One’s Lover’s Moods’ was never covered in Contemporary Literary Theory.”

Robert could hear the laughter in her voice and found himself smiling in turn.

“So what’s bothering you?”

“Oh, the usual. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“And Kathy?” Stephanie suggested lightly.

Robert shrugged, uncomfortable discussing his wife with his mistress. “She’s not great,” he admitted. “I saw her taking some pills; I think she may be coming down with something.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

“You think I’m making excuses for her, don’t you?” Robert said, filling the silence and immediately regretting it. The last thing he needed was to have an argument with Stephanie. One cold shoulder he could manage; two cold shoulders would leave him none left to cry on. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m tired. Yes,” he admitted, “there were a few words this evening. But only to do with Christmas. It’s the pressure of the season.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Robert squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head from side to side. Christ, he must be tired. He’d been avoiding bringing up the subject of Christmas with Stephanie.

“Am I going to get to see you over Christmas?” Stephanie asked. He had come to recognize that when she was being serious, her Midwest accent became more pronounced. Stephanie Burroughs had grown up in Madison, Wisconsin.

“Of course you will,” he said quickly.

“Any idea when?”

“Well, I’ll see you on Christmas Eve. Give you your present,” he added. “And then probably the day after Christmas.”

“So I won’t see you Christmas Day?” Stephanie asked sharply.

“No, not on Wednesday, Christmas Day. But the day after. Actually, no, shit, not the day after, scratch that.”

“What’s wrong with Thursday?”

“We always have dinner with Kathy’s sister Julia on Boxing Day. Her husband’s British. It’s a tradition.”

“Oh. A tradition.”

There was a long pause, before Stephanie added, “I remember you did that last year. And, I’m pretty sure you said then it was going to be the last one you went to.”

“I think I say that every year.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“No,” he said simply.

“So, given the choice, dinner with your sister-in-law or spending time with me, what would it be?”

“No contest. Spending time with you,” he said immediately.

“Then do it.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“It is if you want it to be.”

“You know I want it to be.”

Stephanie sighed. “I know you do. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pressure you. I guess I’m tired too. I’m seeing you tomorrow though?”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I double booked. I’ve got Jimmy Moran lined up for dinner tomorrow night. I’m really sorry. Blame it on the situation in the office. I thought Maureen had canceled him, and Illona never thought to check. I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem. These things happen. Any sign of Maureen coming back?”

“January. Maybe.” He sighed. “I sent her a few e-mails but she cannot—or will not—give me a straight answer.”

“You need to start thinking with your head rather than your heart on this one,” Stephanie suggested. “And if you do manage to get the pop video gig, do you want someone who looks like a glamorous granny at the front desk or do you want a gorgeous young European?

“Well, since you put it that way . . .”

“This business is all about first impressions,” Stephanie interrupted. “Come on, Robert. Who do you want to be the face of your company, Maureen or Illona?”

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” He sighed. “But I don’t feel good letting Maureen go before Christmas.”

“You’re too soft,” Stephanie murmured. “Though I usually change that,” she added quickly, her voice soft and husky, catching him off guard.

“You’re bold!”

“Sometimes. So I won’t see you tomorrow at all?”

“I’ve got the pitch in the morning, then dinner in the evening.”

“Wanna have a sleepover after dinner?” she purred.

“Maybe,” he said coyly.

“Maybe.” She laughed, the sound high and light. “Just maybe?”

“Would it be worth my while?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she promised.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You do that,” she said, and hung up.